


A Frayed Rug

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-26
Updated: 2007-11-26
Packaged: 2019-01-19 14:02:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12411699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: And oh how she hated it. Loathed the rug’s presences. She didn’t want to be that rug. The rug everyone wanted a piece of.





	A Frayed Rug

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

She’d asked every girl in the Gryffindor dorm for excuses to dump a boy. And none of them, not one of those petty excuses, worked.

 

He was smart, so she couldn’t call him dumb. He was Quidditch captain and a prefect, so uninvolved was out of the question. He was a natural leader, so unassertive could be crossed off. He was punctual, he brought her flowers and chocolates ( _Belgian_ chocolates), never forgot a holiday, an anniversary, and Merlin he’d even memorised her friends’ birthdays _and_ gotten them gifts. Her parents loved him, and his charming smile had even quieted Petunia for the afternoon (she’d struggled to stay standing when Petty hadn’t whispered anything malicious on her way out). He hadn’t cheated on her (she’d searched his dorm room for bras). Hadn’t kept any secrets (was that possible?). He wasn’t a sloppy kisser, and in fact, was one of the best she’d ever had. He had neat handwriting; made her soup when she was sick, was a complete gentleman and organised everything to a degree of perfection she’d only dreamt of in a man.

 

Who could want more? He was perfect. 

 

She had it on paper, documented. She wanted to laugh at that. How this boy’s perfection could be written down, in lists and columns, just how he liked things. Just the way _she_ liked things. So why didn’t she like him? It only went to follow. 

 

But for once in her life, things didn’t follow.

 

And that was why Lily Evans was sprawled out in the prefects’ bathroom (the only quiet place she could find) with a large tub of ice cream and quill in hand, contemplating her rug of a relationship.

 

That’s what it was (she’d discovered in all her analogical glory). A rug. Not one of those modern ones her mum liked to by either with the squares and circles and whatnot. No, this was a nice symmetrical rug; a _perfect_ rug. The colours complemented each other wonderfully. There were no frayed edges (none!). 

 

And oh how she hated it. Loathed the rug’s presences. She didn’t want to be _that_ rug. The rug everyone wanted a piece of. For the first time in her life she wanted mismatched colours! She wanted asymmetrical objects! Go ahead, world, through a great blob of magenta paint on my rug, she wanted to scream. She craved for frayed edges.

 

The girls of the Gryffindor dorm obviously hadn’t dumped enough boys.

 

She wanted so badly to rip the rug in half right in front of his pretty face. She wanted to see him beg and ask and plead, to tell her that he loved her. To get down on his knees and tell her that she was important. Because Lily Evans was not prepared to be the golden trim on _anyone’s_ rug.

 

But it wouldn’t unfold that way (perfect rugs never do). He would be calm and rational and have her sit down and talk it out. “Talking is key in a relationship, Lily. It’s all about communication,”� he’d said in Hogsmeade, in that knowing voice of his (sounded like the woman in the bloody phone booth at the Ministry, she thought).

 

She wanted arguments. She wanted complaints. Oh how James Potter would laugh if he knew she wanted to fight (and win, of course). She wanted him to be late, to blow her off for his friends, to get drunk and make out with some other girl. Was that _too_ much to ask for? She didn’t think so. But he had other ideas.

 

Oh! How that boy ruined everything! He was just so…

 

Every little girl wishes for Prince Charming to sweep her off her feet. It had been Lily’s dream for ages, and then here he’d come, and oh, Lily had been swept. But now she was backwards on a horse she’d rather be off of. The mud and evil witches were looking far more positive than the man on the horse. 

 

She wanted to scream! To be rid of it (she cringed at the lack of antecedent)! And set out to unleash the true wrath of Lily Evans, she scrambled to her feet, making sure no one was there to witness the sure unravelling of the constantly put-together girl. And there went the tub of ice cream, rolling to its inevitable doom at the bottom of the prefect bath. Not quite sure what her groan of frustration was for anymore, she chased after that lovely tub of chocolate (a girl had to be allowed her comfort foods) and then proceeded to dive into the large bath to retrieve her tub. She’d never had good aim, but landing right on the tub? That had to be a little harsh. She knew she hadn’t prayed in the past, oh, six years or so, but this was a little much. Chocolate ice cream oozed out from beneath her feet onto the cement bottom of the bath. Gone, it was all gone. Her bottom lip quivered at the sight and she let out a howl.

 

Not a girlish shriek, but a full-throated scream, of anger, of despair, of _it_. She grabbed the tub and began pulling at the sides, furiously, wanting it to rip. And it did, and chocolate splattered all over her, and she screamed and jumped and kicked and pounded at the cement, throwing the tub repeatedly on the ground anything she could to get all of it _out_. Out of her system, out of her body. She wanted to be rid of the blasted rug. She screamed and slapped and hit and kicked, wanting it gone, all of it to just be gone.

 

And then the lady of the telephone booth’s voice drifted into her head, into the gaps of silence: “Lily. Lily, darling. Come one, Lily. What’s wrong, Lily?”� And she just smacked harder (his voice was in her head!). “Evans!”� that was a shout. A shout? An emotion? That wasn’t him, though. Was that… James? Was he here? Lily was breathing heavy and slowly she looked up, her brain slowly (like a slug, really) processing what was happening. 

 

He was there. With James Potter. Of all people. 

 

“Evans, what the hell!”� Potter yelled, he looked angry. He looked worn, tired, frayed.

 

He shot James a look (a look!). “Lily, are you okay? We heard you… screaming.”�

 

“Like a banshee,”� she heard Potter mutter. 

 

He looked so calm, so unmoved, so undisturbed. Not the slightest worry marks. She was screaming like a banshee! Potter’d said it himself. And he was… perfect. 

 

The anger ebbed, and Lily sighed, her toes were sore, her knuckles bloody and her palms stinging. Calmly she picked up the ice cream carton, and clambered out of the bath, ignoring his attempts to help. She faced the both of them and said calmly, “Our rug? It’s over.”�

 

Then shoving the tub at Potter she turned around and walked away.

 

It was time for Lily Evans to make a rug with frays.


End file.
